I Am Not My Hair

For those of you who were around January 2010, I came back from a trip to Miami with a whole lot on my mind...and just as much on my head.

I was tired. Of conforming. Of attempting to grow this long mane of straight hair that my then-husband had convinced me would make me beautiful. Of not feeling quite right in myself.

So I went to Queen, my brand new hair-dresser, and told her I wanted to chop the shit off.

We started slow, as anytime she brought scissors near my head I began to hyperventilate. What the sweet fuck was I doing? Amber-Rose I was not. We threw some color in, styled it up, but still, as I walked out of the salon I was very aware of a lightness in my head that had nothing to do with my feeling that I was going to pass out.

Washing my hair in the shower was an interesting surprise... Short hair washes quick - dries quicker. But I couldn't figure out what the heck I wanted to do with it...and I had the sinking suspicion that, with the loss of my hair, I had turned into a boy.

Being honest here - laugh if you've been there.

I joined a group of women who had dedicated themselves to living with their natural hair, fro'd, free, and fabulous. I wanted to be one of them. I imagined myself with a curly mane that waved in the wind, sending out Foxy Cleopatra vibes. Every month my hair grew more...but not nearly as much as I expected. Feeling down, I scheduled an out-of-salon sit-down with Queen.

It went something like this:

Me: My hair isn't growing!!! I look like a boy! (Sobs uncontrollably into her wine)
Queen: Girl please. Just let that shit grow. Stop putting shit in it and let it breathe. (She nods her own freedom fro to the music, taunting me with it's fierceness)
Me: (a bit hypnotized by the hair bobbing on her head) Erm...yeah...no more shit...free...Can I touch your hair?

That sold me. I had decided to grow my hair straight out of my head, however God intended for it to be, because I knew that, thru my dedication, I would be rewarded with the 'fro of my dreams.

We did different things to get me to leave my hair alone - as I was a bit addicted to pulling it back into a frumpy, unattractive ponytail. Braids, regular styling visits...and settled on "the weave".

Now let me tell you - for years I had been against "the weave". I remembered being in middle school, watching girls be teased for "dat horse-hair in her head". I'd decided then and there that I never wanted to be one of those girls. But here I was, walking into the til then unknown "hair store" buying packs of what I was assured was 100% Human Hair. I felt like a cheat, a sell out...and, after three hours of braiding, sewing, styling, I felt...beautiful.

WTF.

It was a strange reaction. But I looked into my mirror at my curly brown hair and felt like a different girl. Feminine. Sexy. Powerful. I laughed at myself in the mirror, smiled with my eyes, thought of the naughtiest thing I'd ever experienced, and took a picture.

I was very into experimenting after that. Every time I allowed Queen to transform me through my hair, I took on a different persona and rocked it with all I had. And every time we cut the hair, undid the braids, and combed out hair that was rapidly turning a brownish-red, I ran to the bathroom to tell the girl in the mirror "wait...you'll be ready soon...just wait".

Like anything, however, too much isn't good for you. The same goes for "the weave". I had never truly understood what it meant to be addicted to wearing a weave until I didn't. The psychological change was immediate. I felt ugly. Less than. Like an Ugly Betty.

And therein lies the problem.

I took my last weave out a few weeks ago. Decided I was going to rock the natural hair I had finally grown to a desirable length. I washed it, combed it out, let it dry...and watched my 'fro go flat. Curly, yes, 100% natural -absolutely...but foxy and fabulous?

No.

Damn.

One more dream dashed to dust. And I didn't feel pretty at all.

Two nights ago I had a mini hair panic attack. I couldn't do it anymore, I couldn't look at the bird's nest on my head and pretend it was okay.

So what did I do?

Fell off the wagon. Like ALL the way off that shit. I drove to the Sally's down the street, bought a relaxer and some hair dye, went home and processed the shit out of my natural hair...

And then I burst into tears.

I find that this is something a lot of women, especially Black women, go through, this love-hate relationship with their hair. I seriously contemplated cutting all of it off, starting fresh. I still might as, when I look at my processed, black hair, I do not feel pretty - I feel fake.

But my hair is not all there is to me. So I will let it be for now. And maybe, maybe I can learn to reclaim that feeling of feminine beauty, fierce sexuality, funky artistic classiness in spite of what my hair looks like.

Love ya'll,
-Asha